


The Emojipliers

by a_nonny_moose



Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: M/M, shitpost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-20 09:32:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11918058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: An Emoji Movie AU for Markiplier's Egos! Done because someone told me I couldn't.





	The Emojipliers

Wilford Warfimoji was a glitch, and he hated it. His parents, Walter and Linda Warfimoji, were both ‘Meh’ emojis. But every day, Wilford got up and looked in the mirror-- and every day, he saw himself making too many expressions. He could smile and laugh and cry, and it wasn’t normal. He kept it hidden, of course, but couldn’t help but feel that he was out of place in his programming.

They were all emojis, living in Mark’s phone, and Wilford had a good life there. Everything was normal, except for him, until one day, the worst happened.

* * *

_One new message._

**Amy:**  hey mark, lol how r u?

 **Mark:**  oh hi, im good

 **Amy:**  lol whats up

 **Mark:**  not much u

 **Amy:**  just hangin out. how u feeling

An alarm goes off, and everyone in Textopolis runs to their stations. Wilford, making faces at himself in the mirror, quickly fixes himself into a neutral expression and hurries into place. Mark’s about to send a text. 

* * *

“Amy texted me!” Mark, a normal kid, grips his phone in one hand and nudges Wade urgently with the other. “What should I say?”  


“Dude,” Wade turns to him, peeking over his shoulder at the phone screen. “Don’t use words. Use emojis to tell her how you feel.”  


Mark’s fingers shook over the keypad.

* * *

“Wilford has been selected,” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. Everyone turned to look at him.  


“W-wait, what?” Wilford took a second to process the words before his heart began pounding out of his chest. Mark was going to send him? _Him?_  


The camera came to rest in front of Wilford’s face, about to take a picture to send. 

“Say ‘meh,’“ one of the operators, a robot in yellow, called.  


“I-- Um--” Wilford was sweating, trying to find the presence of mind to compose himself. His expression was glitching again, under stress, and the face he was making was definitely, definitely not a ‘meh’ face.   


_Click._

* * *

“What the heck?” Amy looked over at Mark, across the courtyard, staring at his phone. “What kind of emoji is _that_?”  


“What the heck?” Wade was looking over Mark’s shoulder, at the message he’d just sent. “What _is_ that?”  


“I-I don’t know,” Mark stuttered, looking over at Amy, who shook her head before pocketing her phone. “Something m-must be up with my phone.”  


* * *

Alarms were blaring, lights flashing. The rest of the emojis were running, trying to get farther away from him. Wilford staggered back, a little blinded from the flash. 

Dark, ironically, a smiling emoji, the mayor of Textopolis, shouted over the intercom: “Get that glitch!”

The law enforcement robots, dressed in red, blue, green, and yellow, started advancing. Wilford looked around frantically, shrinking into himself, frozen to the spot. This couldn’t be happening. 

“Please come with us.” Bot_R beeped, annoyed at him. The other three surrounded Wilford, pushing him along.   


“Where-- Where are we going?” Wilford almost stumbled over himself, acutely aware of the silence in the room.   


“To see Darkimoji.”  


“But--”  


“Do not ask questions.”  


They walked the rest of the way in silence, the bots beeping every time Wilford’s face changed in fear. 

They reached Dark’s office, and Bot_B gestured for Wilford to enter. 

As Wilford shuffled forward to knock on the door, it burst open. The Emoji Council filed out, shooting him dirty looks. With his heart in his throat, Wilford stepped into the office.

“Hello!” Dark was always too cheery, a grin plastered on his face. “Wilford, is it? Welcome!”  


“Er, hi.” Wilford looked around the room, finding nothing too scary, then back at Dark. “I was going to defend myself, but, you seem... happy?”  


A shadow crossed Darkimoji’s face, but the smile didn’t waver. If anything, he grinned wider. “I’m always happy, Wilford.”

It sent a chill down Wilford’s spine. Something wasn’t right here.

“What about you?” Dark leaned forward, into Wilford’s face. “Why aren’t you always ‘meh’?”  


Wilford stared backing away, towards the door. “I made a mistake,” he stuttered, “but I’ll fix it, I promise. Next time.”

“Oh, Wilford, my dear _malfunction_.” Dark snapped his fingers, and the doors sprang open behind Wilford. He smiled. “There isn’t going to _be_  a next time.”  


The four Bots moved forward into the room, closing in on Wilford. 

Wilford stared at Dark’s face, grinning down at him, then looked to the four Bots, glowing ominously down at him.

In the end, he couldn’t have explained his reasoning-- he just ran.

The Bots pursued him, alarms sounding, but Wilford was faster than them, and more nimble. He managed to get out of the Text Center building and all the way downtown, losing the bots in the crowd. No one turned to look at him, even panting and sweaty. He hid in an alley, catching his breath.

A light shone into the alleyway, and Wilford’s heart stopped in his chest. The beeping of Bot_G echoed down the street, and Wilford could tell this was it. Whatever Emoji God there was, up in the Cloud, he took a moment to pray to it.

“For the love of _binary_ , get in here!” A door opened in the darkness, and a hand pulled Wilford inside. With a click, the door swung shut behind them, and Wilford was left in darkness.   


* * *

A light clicked on.

“Bim, Bim Trimoji.” A high-five emoji stood in front of him, extended for a handshake.   


As Wilford dumbly shook Bim’s, er, hand, he looked around. They were in a dimly-lit room, with other emojis at tables around them. There was a bar in the corner, and board games scattered across the room.

“Where--” Wilford started to question, looking back at Bim.  


“Welcome to the Loser Lounge,” Bim said, smirking. “Where unused emojis come to hang out.”  


Bim took Wilford’s hand and led him farther in, seating them at the bar. 

“Th-Thank you,” Wilford finally stammered out, looking across at Bim.  


“No problem.” Bim took a long sip of the drink in front of him, eyeing Wilford up and down. “So,” he said, setting the empty glass down, “you’re Wilford, right? The malfunction?”  


Wow, it hurt to hear it like that. Wilford swallowed, hard. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Bim looked at Wilford a moment longer. “Darkimoji’s looking for you, huh?”

“The bots are,” Wilford muttered, shrinking. Everything that had happened in the last hour was beginning to hit him. He was an outlaw, at best. A danger to everyone here. He should leave. 

“I get you,” Bim said, refilling his cup, a half-empty bottle of Hack Daniel’s in front of him. “I used to be so popular, but now--” he downed his drink, “--I’m here.”  


“I’m sorry,” Wilford mumbled, watching him.   


“Do you want to be fixed?” Bim asked, suddenly, looking over at him.  


Wilford started a little, thinking. Did he really have a choice? “Of course.”

Bim stood up, and Wilford looked at him warily. “Well,” Bim said, straightening his jacket, “let’s go, then.”

Wilford hurried after Bim, down a hallway inside the lounge. The music grew quieter behind them, and the lights dimmer. “Where are we going?”

“To see the Server Host.”  


Wilford was being led to see someone for the second time today, and a sense of foreboding followed him down the corridor. “Why?”

Bim stopped, the flickering light above him sending shadows over his face. “If you want to be fixed, there’s only one person that can help. The Host can reprogram you.”

Wilford took a moment to mull it over. The alternative was going back out _there_ , dodging bots and living in the shadows for the rest of his life. He nodded. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Bim grinned a little and pulled Wilford along. This wasn’t foreboding, all of a sudden. He had a friend, and they had a plan. 

“I’ll come with you,” Bim said. “I want to reclaim my fame, if I can.”

They’d reached a door, a faint glow behind it. Wilford looked a little closer at it. “Is this...”

“This is an exit,” Bim said, with finality. “The Server Host lives in a different app. Are you ready to leave Textopolis?”  


Wilford’s head was spinning. Running away? Could he do that?

Well, at this point, what did he have to lose? “Let’s go.”

* * *

“He’s what?”  


Bot_R beeped in concern, nose-to-nose with Darkimoji. “He’s left Textopolis.”

All four bots backed up as Dark’s smile twitched, just for a moment. 

Dark spoke through teeth gritted into a smile. “Go. Get. Him.”   


* * *

Walter Warfimoji turned to Linda, both of their faces in a perfect neutral expression. “Have you seen Wilford today, honey?”

“Meh.”  


* * *

“This is Piracy,” Bim said, waving at the app they’d just walked into. Wilford looked around, wide-eyed. Shining bots were everywhere, but none seemed to be very interested in them. There were pirates, complete with eyepatches, walking in small gangs around the street. Everything was dimly lit, and Wilford edged out of the way of a rough-looking pair of pirates as he followed Bim farther into the app.   


“The Server Host lives here,” Bim said, slowing to match Wilford’s pace. “He used to live in Textopolis.”  


“Why is he _here_ , then?” Wilford looked around them, intimidated under the streetlights.   


“That’s something you’ll have to ask him,” Bim shrugged.   


They’d reached a nondescript house on the side of the street, tucked into a cover of tree branches and shadows. Wilford picked his way to the door, following Bim, who seemed so assured, as if he’d done this before. 

_Knock-knock-knock._

The response, almost immediate: “Go away!”

Bim sighed and knocked again.

_Knock knock knock-knock knock, knock-knock._

“Ah, Bim!” 

There was violent shuffling from inside, and the door swung open. Wilford had enough time to see the darkness inside, a trench-coated figure, before Bim pulled him in.

* * *

Bot_Y burst into the Loser’s Lounge, beeping angrily. The rest of the bots filed in behind him, glowing ominously. In the panic of emojis running away, Bot_Y marched in, his brothers trailing behind him. They knocked over chairs in their way, making for the bar.

Bot_R ran up to get there first, seizing the bartender by the throat. “Where is Wilford?” he growled, whirring. 

The bartender, pale, choking, pointed down a dimly-lit hallway. 

* * *

“The Server Host welcomes you.”

Wilford looked around frantically. The house was pitch-black, save for the blinking of a few computer screens and lights. How did the Server Host _see_  in here?  


Bim shuffled his feet. “Er, Host, it’s nice to see you. Could we...”

“The Host apologizes.”   


With a click, the lights flipped on. Wilford blinked in the sudden brightness, taking in the interior of the house. It was dusty, but neat. The only thing in the room was a desk covered in a microphone and computer, a chair carefully positioned next to it. Wilford turned to see their host, the Server Host, and had to take a double-take.

The Server Host smiled a little, tilting his head, as Wilford gasped. His hair was dyed in streaks of bright blonde. The Host’s head was wrapped in a bandage, but even obscured, Wilford could see the edges of binary code and glitched pixels where his eyes should have been.

“The Server Host is a hacker,” Bim hurriedly interjected, trying to stop Wilford from staring. “He can fix you, right, Host?”  


“What does Bim expect the Host to fix?”  


Bim gestured to Wilford, vaguely. “Him.”

* * *

Bot_G turned his head quickly, walking down the streets of the Piracy app. He could practically smell the glitch, and... something else. With a beep, he summoned his brothers, and they walked closer. 

The street was now deserted and dark, save for a brightly lit house at the end. The Bots advanced until the grass in the lawn crunched under their feet.

* * *

“The Host believes that is is possible to fix Wilford,” he said, tapping away at his computer. Wilford and Bim peered over the Server Host’s shoulders, seeing the keyboard covered in the raised bumps of Braille, a quiet mechanical voice reading the words on the screen.   


“The Cloud?” Bim piped up, leaning close to read the screen.  


“Yes.” The Server Host shut his laptop and shoved it into a bag, something like triumph in his voice as he felt for the zipper. “We will have to go into the Cloud, through Dropbox, and reprogram Wilford there.”  


“And you’re sure this will work?” Wilford asked, turning away, suddenly conflicted. Was he ready to consign himself to being like his parents, apathetic?  


* * *

Bot_G raised a hand to knock on the door, but Bot_Y beeped at him in annoyance. With a kick, he knocked the door down. 

* * *

Wilford was closest to the door, and heard the whirring of the bots from the other side before the _crash_  of the breaking door froze all of them in their places.

Bot_Y was the first one inside, glowing an angry yellow. “Wilford Warfimoji,” he beeped, “we are here to collect you.”

The other bots trooped in behind him. “Do not resist,” they said in unison. 

Bim looked to the Server Host in panic, backing away from the bots. 

The Server Host lifted his bag into place on his back in one fluid movement. He backed up swiftly, while the Bots were staring at Wilford, and gestured to Bim. Bim reached for Wilford’s hand, and together, the three of them bolted out the back door. 

* * *

“Where,” Wilford panted, running after Bim, “are we going?”  


Bim shook his head, too winded to breathe, and pointed to the Host. The Host, a good step ahead of them, seemed to be running effortlessly though the back alleys of the Piracy app. 

Together, Bim and Wilford followed him until the road seemed to end in front of them. The Bots were closing in behind them, but the street dropped off into a glowing, blue abyss. Looking warily over the edge, Wilford could see another app below them, binary code obscuring the space between. 

“Jump.” The Host was at the edge, listening for Bim and Wilford.  


“Are you _crazy_?!” Bim yelled at him, shooting a terrified glance at the drop-off behind him. In front of them, the Bots were getting closer, whirring in what seemed to be triumph.   


The Host took a step into nothingness, and Wilford stifled a scream as he fell into the void, backlit in blue. 

Bim shakily stepped backwards towards the edge. Wilford eyed the Bots warily, then looked at Bim. “Bim, we have to go. Now.”

“I--”  


There was no time. Wilford took Bim’s hand, tugging at the sleeve, and jumped into nothingness. Wind whistled past them, almost drowning out Bim’s screams. The ground was coming towards them fast, too fast, and WIlford closed his eyes.

* * *

Wilford opened his eyes slowly, clinging to something that had knocked the wind out of him as he fell. He looked up-- no Bots in sight. He looked down-- grass, trees, and brightly colored... candy? Bim was clinging to something brightly-colored below him, and Wilford yelled down at him.

“Bim?!”  


Bim looked up, face pale, hand wrapped around a block. “Wilford? Are you okay?!”

“Yeah, wh-where are we?”  


Bim looked up, past Wilford, and Wilford followed his gaze. He could just barely make out letters revolving above them, spelling out-- 

“Candy Crush?” Too late, Wilford realized that the thing he was clinging to was a giant piece of candy, about to be paired with another.  


* * *

Mark was in the middle of class, daydreaming and doodling instead of doing his work, when his phone started playing music. He rushed to cover it up, but the whole class turned to look at him. 

“S-sorry,” he stammered, glancing down at the screen. Candy Crush had opened itself, on a new game. Hurriedly, he closed the app and put his phone face-down, face burning in shame. 

Amy had even turned around to look at him. Mark put a hand over the “Mark + Amy” heart he’d been drawing, feeling himself go completely red. He really needed to get this phone fixed.  


* * *

Darkimoji called a meeting at Text Central, in the absence of the Bots and the rest of the emojis in panic. 

“We have a problem,” he said, standing at the head of the table. “Wilford ‘Meh’ Warfstache has now taken his malfunction to _two_  other apps. This has caused Mark--” Dark pressed a button, and a countdown appeared on the wall behind him. The others in the room gasped, “--to schedule an appointment to wipe his phone.” Dark leaned forward, smiling widely. “If we get wiped, I need not remind you that all of us will be deleted.”

A murmur made its way around the room.

“We have four hours.”  


* * *

By the time Wilford and Bim made their way to the ground, the Host had found them and was waiting just behind the candy-colored treeline. 

“Are Wilford and Bim ready to continue?”  


Wilford was doubled over, wheezing, and Bim was similarly winded. “Give us... give us a second,” Bim gasped. The two of them fell gratefully to the ground, and the Host seated himself next to them, pulling out his laptop.

As Bim and Wilford caught their breath, the Host explained. “Whatever malfunction is affecting Wilford, it can only solved by going to the source code. The only way to fix this source code is by getting into the Cloud, where the data that makes up our being is stored.” The Host cleared his throat and smiled a little. “It has been the Host’s dream to live in the cloud, but he has never been able to go there alone. To get there, we must hop between several apps to get to Dropbox and then bypass a firewall.”

“It’ll be easy... right?” Wilford finally felt ready to move, swallowing a breath.   


Bim, sitting beside him, laughed a little. “Doubt it.”

“There is no time like the present.” The Host stood, putting away his computer, and smiled in their direction. “The Host would suggest that we hurry.”  


Bim helped Wilford up, and the two of them hurried after the Host into the candy forest. Wilford hurried forward to talk to the Host, eyes on the light in his hair. He was so _cool_ , not limited by any one emoji or emotion. Vaguely, Wilford wondered who the Host had been before... well, before.

Behind them, Bim was picking candy off of the trees. “There’s so much sugar here. guys!” Wilford could only shake his head. 

“Uh, thanks for all of this, Host,” Wilford said, rubbing the back of his neck.   


“It is not a problem, as long as the Host can live in the cloud.”  


Wilford fell into awkward silence, the only sound Bim’s munching on candy behind them. 

“Why do you talk in third person?” he asked, suddenly. The curiosity was eating him alive, and he didn’t even have the presence of mind to put it less bluntly.   


The Host didn’t seem to be bothered by the question, and smiled gently. “The Host was... someone else, a lifetime ago. The use of third person helps the Host to identify his surroundings, and be able to jailbreak emojis such as yourself more efficiently.”

Wilford was quiet again, walking along. They were almost at the edge of the app, and he could see a purple glow making its way through the trees. 

“We are here.” The Host stopped, and Wilford turned back to see Bim, face covered in sugar, staggering towards them.

“I’m never eating candy again,” Bim moaned, holding his stomach.  


“I--” Wilford was suppressing a laugh, but the Host was snickering beside him.  


Bim burped into his hand, and Wilford felt a wave of revulsion. Bim stared at his palm, at a piece of oversized candy corn in his hand. 

Wilford knew exactly what was about to happen. “Don’t do it, Bim.”

Bim eyed the candy, moving it closer to his mouth.

Wilford took a step towards him. “No, Bim, it’s already been in there once, don’t do it.”

Bim put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Wilford put his head in his hands. Behind him, the Host laughed. 

“We should-- we should go,” the Host managed, still laughing.   


Wilford rolled his eyes and hurried Bim along next to him. The void of binary stretched out beyond the trees, and Wilford eyed it with trepidation. “Are you sure we can make that...jump...” He trailed off as the Host took a running leap into the blackness, swallowed whole in seconds. 

Bim and Wilford looked at each other for a moment and shrugged. It had been a crazy enough day, what was one more leap of faith? Together, they jumped after the Server Host.

* * *

Mark, in his next class, heard his phone begin to vibrate under his papers. Hurriedly, he tapped at the screen, hoping to prevent it from making noise. 

* * *

“OOF!” Wilford landed on the floor of the new app with a thump, the breath knocked out of him. Bim hurtled through space to land squarely on top of him, groaning.   


The Host, somehow already on his feet, snorted at them as they floundered to their feet. “We are not far now,” he said, gesturing ahead. 

“Let’s hurry,” Wilford said, looking around. The flashing lights of this app were somehow less comforting than the pastels of Candy Crush.   


The three of them started to move forward, still hugging the very edge of the app. On one side, the rest of the app, blocked in by code and the outlines of dancers. On the other side, a drop-off into the darkness, the glow of other apps below them. Bim looked around nervously, spotting a few too many flashing lights. 

Wilford ran ahead to talk to the Host again, watching the light play across the bones of his face. “So, Host, where’d you come from?” It was a question that he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to, put lightly enough.

The Host sighed. “The Host used to be here, the Coder,” he said, surprising both of them. “He didn’t want to be stereotyped, his whole life, so he wanted to live in the cloud.” The Host shook his head, sadly. “The Host couldn’t get into Dropbox, so he went to live in Piracy, where Wilford found him.” A shrug, and a sad smile, and Wilford’s heart was breaking. Slowly, he reached down to brush the Host’s hand with his own.

Behind them, four Bots whirred to life, locking in on the back of WIlford’s head. 

* * *

Despite Mark’s best efforts, his phone started to blare music. Again. 

The teacher turned around, furious. “Mr. Fishbach! Turn that off, immediately!” 

Mark fumbled with his phone, closing out the app. Music was still playing, and everyone was staring. He could feel his hands starting to shake.

* * *

Bim looked back to see the Bots trailing them. Panic rose in his chest, and he reached forward to alert Wilford and the Host. Behind him came the tell-tale whirr of the Bots speeding up, about to gain on them.

In the end, there was no time to think, much less explain.

Bim ran forward, next to the Host and Wilford. 

“What are you--” Wilford started to say, confused.  


Bim had time to mouth, “Sorry,” before he reached out to push them. 

Wilford and the Host screamed as they pitched over the edge of the app, falling into the void. Behind Bim, he could hear the Bots about to capture him, and he closed his eyes.

* * *

“Mr. Fishbach!”  


Mark panicked, fumbling, and held down the app’s icon. As soon as the app was deleted, the music stopped. 

He looked up, beginning to break out in a sweat, watching the eyes of everyone in the classroom on him. Amy, a row or two ahead, shook her golden hair in disdain and turned around. 

As the rest of the class slowly turned back to their work, Mark shot an annoyed glance at his phone. “I _really_ need to get this fixed,” he muttered to himself.

* * *

Bot_R flickered to life, floating towards what he knew was the trash. He spotted his brothers, floating next to him. They had to survive. They had to fulfill their primary objective. 

Quietly, he activated his secondary programming. It was time for an upgrade.

* * *

Wilford woke up on the floor of another app he didn’t recognize. A gallery full of square pictures surrounded him, and letters above him spelled out: Instagram. Wilford didn’t know what an instant ‘gram’ was, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He sat up, looking around. On the floor next to him--

“Host!” Wilford scrambled over, suddenly more scared than he’d ever been, even being chased by bots. If the Host was hurt...  


The Host mumbled to himself, beginning to stir. Wilford knelt next to him, cradling his head. His bandage was slipping, and Wilford could see the scratched-out eye sockets streaming binary code down his cheeks. With a gentle hand, Wilford reached to adjust the bandage around the Host’s eyes. 

“What-what--”  


“Shh,” Wilford said, leaning down to look closer at the Host. There was a bruise beginning to form on the side of his head. “Don’t move.”  


The Host lay still for a moment more, and Wilford leaned in closer. He could feel the Host’s shaky breath against his face, was close enough to caress the side of his face--

The Host sat up abruptly, breathing hard. “We h-have to get going,” he said, shaking his head.

Wilford looked around again. “Where’s Bim?”

The Host took a moment to think. “He might have still been in the app when it was deleted. He was trying to save us.”

Wilford felt tears well up behind his eyes, and forced them down. “Is he...”

“He will be in the Trash,” the Host said, fidgeting uncomfortably with the strap of his bag.   


“We have to go save him!” Wilford was finally on his feet, determined.  


The Host shook his head. “It is too late.”

“It’s not too late, we have to--” Wilford felt himself beginning to cry, his voice breaking.  


In a swift movement, the Host was next to him, arms encircling him in a warm, secure hug. Wilford felt his breath and the last of his control leave him, and started to sob into the Host’s coat. 

“We will go get him,” the Host whispered, drying Wilford’s tears. “It isn’t too far.”  


“Really?” Wilford suddenly realized how close he was to the Host, and backed up hurriedly. “Th-thank y--”  


Behind them, Wilford heard familiar voices, and interrupted himself to whirl around. “Mom? Dad?”

The Host stood by awkwardly as Wilford ran to his parents, who looked as ‘meh’ as ever, and embraced them. 

“Wilford,” Linda said, monotone, “we were so worried.”  


“Meh,” Walter said, shrugging his shoulders. Linda elbowed him in the ribs. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “We wanted to find you, and explain.”  


“What happened,” Wilford said, starting to tear up again, “and why? Why am I a glitch?”  


Walter sighed, and explained very simply. “Wilford, we apologize for not telling you earlier. I, too, have a malfunction.” With that, he dropped his normally neutral expression and smiled kindly at Wilford, who stared in astonishment. “This is why you can feel and express too many emotions. Son, we’re sorry.” There was a real depth of emotion behind the words this time, and Wilford hugged him again, overflowing with tears. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, choking on the words.   


“You’re welcome,” Linda said, watching them. “Wilford,” she added, suddenly, “we know about your plan.” Behind Wilford, the Host shifted uncomfortably. “We won’t stop you,” she said, looking at Walter, “but we wish you luck, and we hope that you’ll just be yourself.”  


Another family hug, and Wilford was running out of tears. Silently, he hugged them tightly, feeling something in his chest shift. “Thank you,” he said again, simply. 

“We have to go back,” his father explained, struggling to keep his neutral expression, now. “Before Darkimoji notices that we’re missing, anyway.”  


“Be safe,” Wilford’s mother said, waving at him. Together, Wilford’s parents walked away down the gallery of pictures, hand-in-hand.  


Wilford took a moment to breathe, and the Host came up behind him with a hand on his shoulder. “They are proud of you,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Wilford said, sniffling a final time. “They are.” With that, Wilford tentatively took the Host’s arm and they walked together to the edge of the app. “Where to next, Host?”  


“We will have to cross through Spotify first,” the Host said, leading Wilford to a different spot, pointing down at a green glow across the edge of the void. “Beyond that is the Trash, and then Dropbox.”  


“Let’s go.” With a smile, and arms entwined, the two of them stepped off the edge.  


* * *

Spotify, it turned out, was a lush pine forest. Wilford followed the Host down what seemed to be a very sketchy trail, swatting branches out of their way, listening to the Host tell a story. 

“...and they lived happily ever after,” the Host said, brow furrowing. “At least, the Host believes so. He cannot remember all of this story.”  


“That’s fine, Host,” Wilford huffed, trying to lift a particularly large log that was blocking the path. “You don’t have to be perfect, after all, I like you j-just the way you are.” Realizing what he’d said, Wilford went pink, but the Host’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.  


After a beat, the Host responded, “The Host likes Wilford just the way he is, too. Malfunction or, er, otherwise.”

Wilford’s face was definitely red, now. The log he’d been trying to move suddenly shifted, and he was on his knees in the dirt. The Host moved closer to help him up, and their heads bumped together. 

“Uh, sorry,” Wilford stuttered. “Uh, thanks. Uh...”  


“The Host believes that we are not far now,” the Host said, smiling faintly.   


“Uh, right.”   


They continued through the rest of the app in silence-- amicable on the Host’s part, but nail-biting on Wilford’s. 

* * *

By the time they join hands again to jump from the pine tree forest to the smoky glow that is the trash heap, Wilford’s face has returned to its original color, and he’s even cracking a few jokes. The Host chuckles at the more clever ones, but is mostly silent. It’s almost nice, just the two of them.

They landed in the Trash with a _thump_  and a puff of smoke. Wilford got to his feet first, extending a hand to the Host.

“Thank you, Wilford,” the Host said, smiling warmly. Once on his feet, the Host brushed himself off gently, tilting his head to listen to his surroundings.  


Wilford looked around. The Trash looked exactly as he’d imagined it to-- a waste heap, old files piled in hills, binary code in sad puddles all around them. The air was smoky with the residue of deleted data.

The Host started off in a seemingly random direction, over the nearest hill, and Wilford hurried to walk next to him. “D’you know where we’re going?” he said, panting a little. 

“The Host is sure that we-- er, that _you_  will be able to see the deleted app from up here,” the Host said, blushing faintly.   


True enough, as they neared the top of the hill, Wilford pointed into the distance. There was a pink-purple glow, flashing lights, fading quickly behind one of the hills. “I see it!”

“Lead the way, then, Will.” The Host dropped into step just behind Wilford as he hurried towards the source of the light. For once, Wlford was leading the two of them, and it was an odd feeling. With a burst of tenderness, Wilford reached back to hold the Host’s hand in his own, pulling him gently along.   


* * *

Bim woke up slowly, dazed. What had happened? He remembered pushing Wilford and the Host off the edge of the app, remembered the Bots closing in on him, and then-- blackness. 

The Bots. Bim jerked upright, looking around. He was in the Trash, that was for sure. He’d been deposited on the side of a positive mountain of trash, the top and bottom of the heap equally far away. But, as far as he could tell, he was alone. 

With a sigh, he got to his feet. Every pixel in his body ached, but that was no excuse to stop moving forward. As he got up, the section of trash he’d been lying on began to disintegrate. Bim leaped out of the way, to safety, as the files tumbled to the bottom of the hill with an almighty crash.

Somewhere on the other side of the mountain, a homing beacon turned itself towards the sound.

* * *

Wilford followed the fading beacon of light to the base of a gigantic pile of trash. Looking up, he could just barely see the top of it. There were bits of glowing file everywhere, corrupted lights, the silhouettes of dancers. Wilfordmissed all of it-- he was looking for Bim.

The Host heard the danger before Wilford saw it, focused as he was. He held tightly to Wilford’s hand, already wrapped loosely around his, and pulled as hard as he could. 

The loose files crashed by them with inches to spare. The Host landed on his back, safe but bruised. Wilford landed almost in his lap, and the Host automatically curled his arms around Wilford protectively. That had been close, too close, and too loud. 

Wilford lay in the Host’s arms for a moment after the dust settled, then perked upright. “Hey! There’s Bim!” In a second, he’d pulled the Host to his feet and began climbing, shouting Bim’s name the whole way.

“Wilford,” the Host called in an undertone, still a little shell-shocked, “don’t be so loud.”  


“What?!” Wilford yelled over his shoulder, already halfway to the dark figure that he’d recognized as Bim. Bim was climbing down to meet him halfway. “Don’t be loud?!” he bellowed, still climbing. “Why?!”  


The Host had a bad feeling about this. “You’ll attract another avalanche,” he whisper-shouted, even knowing it was a lost cause. “Or unwanted--”

There was a rumble, and both Wilford and Bim slipped a few feet further down the mountain. The Host could feel it, and knew immediately what it meant. 

“RUN!”  


A Bot levitated over the crest of the hill, hesitating for a moment, before looking down to spot Bim and Wilford frantically clambering downwards. The Bot didn’t look...normal, Bim thought, pausing to look up. It was shiny, chrome-colored, and glowed in red, green, blue, and yellow. Upgraded.

“I am the Chrome Bot,” the new robot beeped, commanding all of their attention for a moment. “I am here to collect Wilford Warfimoji.”  


At this, Wilford, who was close enough to the base of the hill, let go of his handholds completely and skidded down next to the Host. He looked up to see Bim still picking his way down, terrified to fall.

The Host gave him a shove. “Run, Wilford, get to the cloud, you’ll be safe--”

“I’m not leaving you, idiot,” Wilford said, glaring at the Host. A plan came to mind. A stupid plan. Wilford decided very quickly that he’d rather be stupid than dead. “I’ll distract it. Get Bim and run, I’ll meet you there.”

“But--”  


Wilford had already set off, zigzagging between piles of trash. The Chrome Bot took a moment to scan them all, then set off after Wilford. The Host, hearing them go, could only hope that Wilford wasn’t an idiot. 

* * *

“HEY BIG DUMB CHROME-BOT, LOOK AT ME!” Wilford was running as fast as he could, trying to loop around back to Bim and the Host. Between the hills and valleys of the Trash, it was a labyrinth of dusty data.   


The Chrome Bot followed him in the air, beeping angrily, sending laser blasts at his feet. “Cease and desist. Resistance is futile.”

Wilford, seeing an opportunity, stopped and planted himself by a particularly large mound of trash. He stuck his tongue out and wiggled his hips, ignoring the terrified beating of his heart. “Bet you can’t get me, Tin Man!”

Chrome drew closer, ceasing fire for a moment in suspicion. 

As soon as the robot was within range, Wilford gave the pile of trash a good kick. As it began to topple, Wilford turned heel and ran, not bothering to see the beautifully chaotic result. Behind him, he could see the dust rising, hear the crashing of trash and Chrome’s infuriated screams.

Wilford allowed himself to laugh as he ran back to join the others. He heard Chrome start up again, somewhere in the distance, beneath a pile of rubble. Far away. This felt good. Everything was good.

The Host was just helping Bim to the ground when Wilford rocketed past, looking like he was having the time of his life. “C’mon, guys!”

The Host would’ve rolled his eyes, if he’d had any, hearing Wilford’s footsteps recede. “Wilford, you are going in the wrong direction.”

Wilford’s steps came back, louder, annoyed in their haste. The Host chuckled, linked his arm with Bim’s, and followed Wilford through the piles of garbage. 

As far as he was concerned, they were going home.

* * *

Wilford got to the edge of the Trash first, teetering on the edge. A cool white glow came from below, and peeking over, he could almost see the Dropbox logo. This was it-- that was their entrance to the Cloud, the place where they would make everything right. 

And afterwards? Well, he couldn’t think that far ahead, but Wilford wanted to go back to life. Work, his family, his friends... He thought of the Host and smiled to himself. Maybe even more than friends. 

Thinking of the Host, Wilford whirled around, looking for him and Bim. Wilford was alone on the edge, piles of trash surrounding him. There was a haze of smoke overhead, and it was a little _too_  strangely silent. Something was wrong.

The thought had barely formed in Wilford’s head that he ought to go look for them when he heard it: two sets of pounding footsteps, the _whirr_ of a bot in the air. Wilford looked around frantically, trying to find them, before--

“Run! Wilford, run!” Bim came barreling through the garbage, dust flying in his wake, pulling the Host along behind him. A blast hit the ground behind them, and Wilford barely had time to register the damaged Chrome Bot before the ground shook, and all three of them were sprawled in a heap.   


“I am here to collect Wilford Warfimoji,” Chrome beeped angrily, colors flashing. “Do not--”  


“Yeah, yeah, do not resist, I get it!” Wilford was already back on his feet, trembling with rage. He didn’t know where the sudden bravado came from, but it stopped Chrome mid-sentence.   


In his peripherals, he could see Bim and the Host edging back towards the drop-off, about to make the leap into Dropbox. Wilford had to buy them time, keep Chrome’s attention on him. 

“Guess what, droid,” Wilford said, seeing Chrome glance at Bim and the Host. Chrome’s eyes-- face-- whatever that was-- locked back onto his. “I’m about to resist.”  


“Resistance is futile,” Chrome droned, but Wilford could see the slight hesitance with which the robot raised its gun, about to blast him into oblivion.  


Behind him, Wilford heard the scrape of Bim and the Host scooting off the edge of the app, falling into Dropbox.

Wilford smiled at Chrome, and the bot hesitated for one last, fatal second. 

Wilford had never done a backflip, but he was very close as he jumped off the edge of the app, laughing at Chrome’s incredulous beeping and misfired shots. Below him, past the rushing air, Wilford could see the figures of the Host and Bim. They were all falling to safety, and he’d never felt more alive. 

* * *

_Th-thump. THUMP._

The three of them hit the ground a few feet apart. First Bim, then the Host, nearly at the same time. Wilford fell a bit farther away, landing in a spectacular belly-flop. 

Bim pulled the Host to his feet, checking over the both of them to make sure they were okay. The Host patted his backpack nervously, making sure his laptop was still in place. 

Wilford got to his feet, covered in dust, a wild smile on his face. “That was _awesome.”_

“Shut up, Will,” Bim said, tiredly. “We almost died.”  


“We almost _died_ ,” Wilford crowed, punching the air with his fist. “It was _awesome.”_  


The Host shook his head with a chuckle, but his mind was elsewhere as Bim and Wilford bickered. He could almost _feel_  it, the buzzing of the Cloud nearby, the edge of Dropbox overflowing with adventure. He was almost there, almost home. 

But first...

“Bim and Wilford,” he said, a smile to his voice, “do you know how we are going to get _into_ Dropbox?”  


Wilford turned around to respond, leaving Bim mid-bicker. “Yeah, we just have to go... through...” He gestured to a door set into the air in front of them, padlocked. 

“I think there’s a password,” Bim said, walking a little closer. Wilford and the Host made to follow, walking side by side.   


Bim hurried up to the door, reaching out to touch the lock. The moment he did, a red-orange wall flared up from underneath them, reaching far up into the sky. Wilford and Bim staggered back, shocked, but the Host stood confidently in front of the literal firewall, a confident grin on his face.

A face appeared out of the flames, flickering in and out. “ENTER PASSWORD BEFORE PROCEEDING,” it droned, giving way to seven blank spaces. 

“Wait, how do we enter the--” Wilford started to say, squinting up at it. In the spaces, the letters “W A I T H O W” appeared, along with an error message.   


“WRONG PASSWORD,” the firewall screeched, sending a burst of flame at Wilford with a _woosh_. He screamed and ducked out of the way, still managing to light the tips of his mustache on fire.   


“Well, do we get a hint?” Bim whispered to the Host, looking timidly up at the wall.  


The firewall flickered for a moment, then said, “PASSWORD HINT: HER NAME <3.”

“How did it say ‘<3′ out loud?” Bim whispered, watching Wilford angrily stamp sparks out of his hair.   


The Host furrowed his brow, thinking. “A M Y N E L S--” he spelled, watching the letters appear on screen. Wilford and Bim held their breath, waiting.

“WRONG PASSWORD.” _Woosh._ Wilford pulled the Host out of the way of another fireball, this time setting fire to his pants.   


Bim tried not to laugh, watching Wilford dance around. “Well,” he said in an undertone, “her name _is_  Amy, so how--”

The Host grumbled in frustration. “Perhaps the password is not her  _name_ , but a pseudonym.”

Wilford perked up, smoking faintly. “I know!” he shouted. The firewall recorded his response, waiting for the rest of the letters. Bim groaned. “Her online name is something like ‘Me Balls’!”

“WRONG PASSWORD.”  _Woosh._

As Wilford stopped, dropped, and rolled, Bim and the Host paused to think.

“Meatballs?”  


“WRONG PASSWORD.”   _Woosh._  


“Marbles?”

“WRONG PASSWORD.”   _Woosh._  


“Near-bles?”  


“WRONG PASSWORD.”   _Woosh._  


“Evils?”  


“WRONG PASSWORD.”   _Woosh._  


“Schme-vils?  


“WRONG PASSWORD.”   _Woosh._  


“ _Pee_ -vils?”  


“WRONG PASSWORD.”   _Woosh._  


The Host paused, trying to restrain himself form laughing. “Bim, that’s just crude.”

“I got it!” Wilford said, very much on fire, but a wide smile on his face. “P E E B L E S!”  


“CORRECT PASSWORD.” The firewall descended with one last w _oosh,_  and Wilford did a little victory dance, still flaming. The door was now open, padlock gone.   


Once  Bim had finished patting all the fire off of Wilford, the Host snorting unsympathetically in the background, the three of them walked to the door together. 

“What if the Chrome-Bot follows us?” WIlford voiced his worry, looking back towards the Trash in the distance.   


“I’ll keep watch, if you like,” Bim said, planting himself at the door.   


“Are you sure--” Wilford started to say, concern filling his voice, but Bim waved him on.   


“I don’t need to be reprogrammed or anything,” Bim said, cracking a smile. “I’ll wait here, you two go ahead.” As the Host turned to walk through the door, Bim gave Wilford a secretive wink.  


* * *

As soon as Wilford stepped through the door, he felt a strange lightness take over his body. He looked up to see the Host floating-- wait, floating?-- above him, laptop cradled in his lap. The Host was cross-legged in midair, drifting through the blue cyberspace. Wilford looked down to see that there was no floor, no up or down anymore. They were in the Cloud. 

Wilford did a strange kind of doggy-paddle to move towards the Host, and ended up tumbling head over heels in an uncontrollable spiral. Just when he thought he was about to puke, seeing the world spin before his eyes, a warm hand reached out to steady him.

“Do move more carefully, Wilford,” the Host’s voice came from the swirling blue. Wilford blinked hard, and his face swam into focus.  


The Host was lit by the electric, pulsating blue glow of the cloud. Wilford found himself admiring the way the Host’s face was lit by angles and shadows, the light caressing the edges of his cheekbones, falling over the hollows under his eyes. 

For the love of _binary_ , he was _beautiful._

Suddenly glad that the Host couldn’t catch him staring, Wilford blushed and allowed himself to move carefully in the space by the Host, drifting in front of him. 

The Host had his laptop in front of him, floating gently as he typed away. 

Wilford let his gaze wash over the Host again, admiring the set of his shoulders, the way his brow furrowed when he was hard at work. A painful thought caught him in the chest, a javelin to the heart. He was about to be reprogrammed. They were really going to go through with this. 

Wilford had never experienced only having one emotion before. Would this mean that he could never enjoy running away from certain death again? Never adore the way the computer’s screen shone light against the Host’s face? Never... love?

He thought about his parents, the way that they looked at each other with disinterest, and fear struck him. Was he, Wilford Warfimoji, really willing to spend the rest of his life like that? As the ‘meh’ emoji he was born to be?

“I-- the Host-- am just about ready to commence the reprogramming,” the Host said, turning his head in Wilford’s direction.   


“I-- did you just say, ‘I’?” Wilford said, a little amazed, a little starstruck, feeling the blood rush to his face.  


“I refer to myself in third person to be safe,” the Host said, a faint blush climbing his cheeks, “but I feel safe enough... here.”  


Wilford filled in the unspoken “...with you.”

“I-- Host, do you-- d’you want to come live with me, when this is all over?” Wilford stumbled over his words, and he was afraid it came out wrong. “I-- I mean, Host, I like you.” He blushed. “I _really_  like you. Will you-- will you come back to Textopolis with me, back home? We-- we can figure something out...” Wilford trailed off, watching the Host furrow his brow.   


“Wilford, I...” he paused, thinking. Suddenly, his voice was hard, formal. “The Host appreciated your company, but he is home now. This, the Cloud, is _his home_.”  


The Host turned back to his laptop, the silence suddenly white-hot.

Wilford could feel the same pain in his chest again. After all they’d been through, after all of _this--_

Something broke, then, inside him. Some strange snapping point, after the ups and downs of the last full day. 

With a feeling like he was hurtling towards the ground too fast, his heart in his throat, Wilford threw his hands up and shrugged. “Meh. That’s cool.” 

It was as if he’d hit the ground, but he suddenly didn’t care.

Not about Wilford, not about Bim.

He didn’t care about anything at all.

The Host looked up from his computer, guilt suddenly written across his face. “Wilford, are you... okay?”

“Meh.” He was fine. Everything was fine, and he didn’t understand why the Host was suddenly staring at him as if he’d turned purple. Not that he cared.  


From behind them came what sounded like a far-off shout. 

“Wilford, Host, RUN!”  


The Host heard it, then, the whirring of the upgraded Chrome Bot sailing through the Cloud. He clutched his laptop tightly to his chest and waited in fear, listening for a blast to catch him, or a net to drape itself over him. 

It never came. 

Instead, the whirring stopped close to him, too close, then began to drift away again. A door slammed, somewhere in the distance. 

“Wilford?” the Host called, quiet, desperate. “Wilford?”  


There was no response, only the humming of cyberspace all around him. He was alone. He was home.

* * *

The Host stepped cautiously out of the Cloud, backpack in his arms. “Bim?”

Everything seemed quiet, except-- Was that... crying?

“Bim?”  


“H-Host?” Bim scrambled to his feet, wiping his face. “You’re okay!”

The Host didn’t expect the hug, but accepted it warmly, feeling Bim shake in his arms. “What happened, Bim?”

Bim pulled away, and the Host could hear him sniffle again. “Chrome followed us, and I-I tried to stop him, but he followed you two into the cloud-- and he took Wilford!”

The Host bit his lip uncertainly, worried. “We will have to get him, Bim. Darkimoji is going to delete him.”

Bim sniffled again. “How? There’s no way that we’ll get there in time!”

The Host sat down, cross-legged on the ground, and pulled out his laptop again. “There may be a way, but you will have to trust me.”

Bim, taken aback by the use of first-person, stared as the Host typed hurriedly away. They were just two small emojis, against the expanse of Mark’s phone, against the Bots, against Dark. What was the Host planning to do?

There was a sharp tweet, a bird call, and Bim spotted a bolt of blue against the bright, white sky. 

In a moment, a giant blue bird descended from the sky. The Host, hearing it land, leaped to his feet. Bim staggered back, and the Host caught him by the shoulder.

“Get on,” the Host said, reaching out to touch the bird’s head. “Twitter will take us to Textopolis.”  


“I-- What-- _How--”_  


_“Hurry_ ,” the Host said, giving Bim a shove forward before clambering up himself, fingers twisted in the bird’s smooth feathers.   


The moment that Bim was secure, clinging to the Host in fear, the bird took off. Behind him, the Host heard Bim scream, but that didn’t matter just now. He listened hard, hearing the wind whip past them, Twitter’s feathers shifting in flight, his bandage beginning to slip down his face...

The bird flapped its wings, and the bandage slipped entirely. The Host had one clear glimpse of the blue of Twitter’s feathers, the apps rushing past below them, the binary above. With a shaking hand, he pulled the bandage back up to plunge himself back into darkness. Seeing didn’t matter right now. He couldn’t handle seeing, right now.

All that mattered was Wilford. 

* * *

Darkimoji grinned widely as Wilford was marched through the door, practically rolling his eyes.

“Wilford Warfmoji,” Dark said, stepping forward. “How nice to see you again!”  


“Meh,” Wilford said, sticking a finger in his mouth, wholly disinterested. Why did these people think he was so important?  


“I-- You’re... not... terrified?” Dark’s smile flinched before becoming wider, painfully intense.   


Wilford shrugged wordlessly, looking around. 

Dark stared daggers at Chrome, who floated around to stand a healthy distance away from the two of them. Dark shot Chrome one last look before turning to smile at Wilford, fierce. “Well, it seems our little _malfunction_  is getting better at _pretending_.” He gestured to Chrome, who moved between him and Wilford, powering up its blasters. Dark poked his head around to watch, still grinning. “Goodbye, Wilford.”

Staring down the barrel of the gun, Wilford seemed to blink, waking up. “Wait, wh--”

There was a blast, shaking the ground, and everything went black. 

* * *

Bim peeked over the Host’s shoulder as Twitter dipped into the sky above Textopolis. “There!” he shouted, pointing. “There’s Text Central!”

Twitter landed with a swish of its wings on a ledge just outside the window. Bim peeked in while the Host patted Twitter’s head, mumbling words of thanks.

“There’s Wilford!” Bim started pounding on the window, shouting his name, but the howling wind drowned him out.   


The Host sat on the ledge, pulling his laptop into his lap. Bim kept pounding at the window, eventually falling to his knees, trying to hide his sobs. “What are we going to do, Host?” he whispered, glancing over.

The Host was typing furiously, not responding until Bim nudged him gently. “Look in the window,” he said, urgency coloring his voice. “Tell me what you see.”

Bim shuffled over obediently, still hiccuping. “Um... Dark’s talking to Will, and--”

“Where is Chrome?”  


Bim looked over at the Host, suprised. “How did you know--”

“Just answer, Bim, please.” The Host turned to face Bim, and Bim saw, in shock, the Host’s bandage pushed out of the way of his eyes. The Host looked hard at Bim, spurring him to urgency, then turned back to the computer screen. 

Bim saw, now, that the laptop was no longer reading out the display in a cool mechanical voice, but that the Host was reading it himself. With his own two eyes.   


“I-- I-- okay.” Bim looked back through the window, eyes dry. “Chrome is behind Wilford... now he’s next to Dark... Dark’s talking... Um, I think he’s about to--” Bim gasped, turning away. “He’s about to delete Wilford! Host, do som--”  


The Host pounded a button on his keyboard with grim satisfaction, the set of his shoulders hard against the glass. 

* * *

There was a crash, and Wilford opened his eyes, emotions flooding back into him. He was about to _die_ , Dark was _right there_ \-- 

The Chrome-Bot lay on its back, gun in the air, powered down. 

Wilford looked around frantically, mind catching up to the moment. What happened? Where was Dark--

In a flash, he spotted Bim waving from the window, the Host standing next to him. With a burst of relief, he hurried over to unlatch it and help them through, head still spinning. 

“Bim? H-Host?” A blush rose to Wilford’s cheeks, but he was just happy to see them safe. “What happened? Are you two okay?”  


“We’re fine, thanks to Host,” Bim said, grinning. “Are you hurt?”  


“No, I’m--” Wilford’s words caught in his throat, meeting the Host’s eyes for the first time. They were golden brown, the color of honey, and any misgivings that Wilford had had were gone. 

“I’m just fine,” he breathed. The Host smiled at him, a real smile that reached his eyes, and Wilford felt his heart drop. 

“Very nice,” Dark’s drawl came from behind them, and the three of them whipped around.  


Dark was pinned hopelessly under the deactivated Chrome-Bot, teeth cracked beyond repair, but smiling widely. “You think you win, _malfunction_? That you can stop me from serving justice--” he spit out part of a tooth, “--and everything would go back to _normal_?” Dark laughed, a horrible wheezing sound, and jerked his chin towards a counter on the wall. “Mark is about to erase us _all_  because of what you’ve done.”

Wilford turned to Bim and the Host, horror-stricken. “There’s got to be something we can do, right?”

Bim shook his head, looking to the Host, who dropped his shoulders helplessly. “Even I have no power here. An erroneous text was sent to the girl of his dreams, and all he can do to fix it is to punish us.”

“A text...” Wilford said, thinking. “Wait, a text!” He turned and started to run out of the room, towards the texting room and camera.  


“Wilford, what are you doing?!” Bim yelled after him.  


Wilford hurried back to them for a moment. “I’m fixing my mistake,” he huffed, a light in his eyes.

Bim grabbed his hand tightly. “Are you sure it won’t make things worse, I--”

The Host met Wilford’s eyes and nodded, understanding. “Bim, let him go. Wilford can do this.” The Host flashed a smile. “I trust him.”

Wilford leaned forward on an impulse, desire flashing white-hot through him. He caught the Host’s lips in a quick, fierce kiss, and took off running. 

This was for Mark, and for Amy. This was for the Host.

* * *

Bim looked at the Host, who was grinning, flushed pure red. “Did he just...?”

“Shut up.”  


* * *

Mark walked into the phone repair shop after school, bell ringing above him as he pushed the door open. He walked to the counter, phone in hand. “Hey, can you guys fix my phone?”

“What’s wrong with it?” the man behind the counter asked, reaching for it.  


“It keeps opening apps randomly, and messing up texts. Important texts,” Mark said, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.   


“We can wipe it, if that’s what you want.”  


“Would that fix the problem?”  


“Oh, for sure.”  


Mark shrugged, glaring at the phone. “Do it.”

* * *

Wilford ran at full speed into the main room of the Text Center, where texts were sent and received. This was a long shot, a desperate, last-ditch attempt to save Textopolis. But he had to try. 

Ignoring the shocked technicians, the stampede of people running after him to stop him, Wilford barged through door after door to get to the texting booth. He found it thankfully empty, save for a spare chair and, of course, the camera. 

Working quickly, Wilford barricaded the door against the entire office, along with Bim and the Host, peering through the window at him. He took a deep, steadying breath. All eyes were on him, quite literally. A part of him hesitated-- was this really worth it? What if he failed?

Wilford remembered the honey of the Host’s eyes, his warm hand on top of Wilford’s, the depth of his trust. And he was ready. 

Wilford flicked the camera on, pressing buttons on the control panel. 

_Create New Message._

He positioned the camera in front of his face, glanced to the side to see the Host watching outside the window, calm, eyes on his own, and hit the shutter. Once, twice, three times. His face morphing through different emotions. 

The emojis watching gasped, but Wilford had already hit send.

* * *

_Buzz buzz._

“Hey man,” the guy behind the counter said, calling Mark back over. “I’m all set to wipe, but it looks like you have a message.”  


“Is it important?” Mark said, walking over to the counter.  


The man chuckled. “It’s from someone named ‘Amy,’ with a lot of emojis around their name.”

Mark blushed a deep red and practically snatched the phone back. There was... a text from him that he didn’t remember sending, and...

 **Amy:**  lol ur emojis are rlly cool!! we should talk more ;) <3

“Do you still want me to wipe it?” the guy behind the counter was saying, cutting through Mark’s daze.  


“Um...” Mark stuttered, staring down at the message, heart beating in his ears. “You know, I think it’s fine. Thanks anyway.” With that, he clutched his phone to his chest and sprinted out of the shop, grinning wildly, Wade’s number on speed dial.   


* * *

“I think it’s fine,” Mark’s voice came over the speaker. “Thanks anyway.”  


Wilford turned to see what looked like the majority of Textopolis staring at him through the window of the texting booth. The relief that had been mounting in his chest suddenly deflated like a popped balloon. They were all safe, but _he_ was still a glitch. A malfunction. 

The Host met his eyes through the glass. A kind of quiet triumph, pride. Love.

Wilford stepped hastily out of the booth, the Host meeting him at the door. Wilford extended his arms for a hug, but the Host locked his lips in an intense kiss.

A murmur went through the crowd. “Is that... the Coder?”

The Host turned, flushed, to face them. “I am the Server Host,” he said. He lifted Wilford’s arm into the air in triumph. “ _This_ is Wilford Warfimoji, and he’s just saved Textopolis.”

Somewhere at the back of the crowd, someone cheered. 

The noise was deafening as everyone, even Bim, lifted Wilford and the Host onto their shoulders and paraded them out of the Text Center. Across the crowd, Wilford grinned at the Host, then Bim. It was done. They were safe. They were heroes. 

They were set down at the start of a celebratory block party. One by one, each emoji came by and congratulated them, thanked them for all their work. Bim stood by, beaming, accepting compliments, and Wilford and the Host joined hands and bowed their heads. 

When the last person had come by, and the party had _really_  started, Wilford turned to the Host.

“Why’d you come back?” he asked, voice almost tender.  


“I--” the Host stuttered, caught off guard.  


“You said that all you wanted was to live in the cloud. Why come back, much less _stay_?” Wilford was almost accusing, now, demanding, and the Host shrunk back a little.  


“For you,” he said, finding his voice. “I couldn’t leave--”  


“That’s what I thought,” Wilford said, cutting him off with a hard kiss, a hand against the back of his head. When he pulled away, he looked deep into the Host’s eyes before speaking.   


“Will you stay? With me?”

The Host answered him with a kiss, nearly tackling Wilford to the ground. “You, me, and Textopolis,” he said, smiling against Wilford’s lips. “You’ll always be _my_  glitch.”


End file.
